


Everything and More

by Red



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Charles Making Assumptions, Erik Being Down for Whatever, Established Relationship, Fetish, Frottage, Lingerie, M/M, Mutant Powers, Shaving, Telepathy, Using Powers in a Sexy Way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-30 00:21:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5143421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red/pseuds/Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ages ago, Erik had offered—<i>whatever you want, Charles, whenever you want, here you can always have my mind</i>—and then, Charles had only laughed. </p><p>But after years together, Charles is willing to admit there is one particular proclivity he <i>does</i> miss, and Erik finds himself receiving a close shave in a rather... intimate location.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything and More

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mabyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mabyn/gifts).



> Written for the [Semi-NSFW meme on tumblr](http://panzercat.tumblr.com/post/128956334919/semi-nsfw-meme-send-me-a-pairing-and-a-number), for mabyn and an anon's shared prompt of "#9: ...confessing a fetish." This obviously got a bit out of hand for a tumblr prompt fill.
> 
> Thanks to afrocurl, firstlightofeos, and jadieladie for editing... And thanks to mabyn for prompting _and_ always being so awesome at encouraging me on twitter when I'm trying to write! Hopefully you dig this. :D

“You know, there is,” Charles says, idly toying with a curl of Erik’s hair, twisting it around his fingers, “one thing I miss.” 

Keeping his head resting on Charles’s chest, Erik frowns to himself. Light as Charles’s voice may be, random as the comment may seem to an outside observer… Erik is sure he knows what Charles is talking about. 

It’s only strange it took so long to come up. Ages ago, he’d offered— _whatever you want, Charles, whenever you want, here you can always have my mind_ —and back then, Charles had just laughed. 

“ _Darling_ ,” Charles had said, “ _I know you aren’t so uncreative to think I can’t enjoy myself enough **without** my powers_ ,” and that had been the end of it. 

Despite a bit of early fumbling on his part—that conversation included—he and Charles have a perfectly satisfying (exhausting and perverse, to be more accurate, if you’re asking Erik) sex life. 

Charles is still playing with his hair, pulling the lock up and letting go. 

“Anything,” Erik says. Charles tugs at the lock, sharp enough now that Erik feels it. 

“Anything is a very, very wide world, my love,” Charles hums, petting Erik’s hair back gently. He’s quiet for a long moment before he seems to gather the nerve to continue: 

“How attached are you, I wonder, to the hair elsewhere on your person?”

\---

Erik had never, as a matter of fact, really thought about it.

He does tend to keep matters neat, and academically he knew that if it grows, people will shave it—but he’d never thought about doing so _personally_. 

It’s strange, thinking of it being something Charles was once keen upon; odder still that it must not have been a solely aesthetic appreciation, or otherwise Charles wouldn’t be soliciting Erik’s response.

That night, he told Charles that he didn’t harbor any particular attachment so long as they weren’t speaking of his eyebrows; and Charles laughed, told him he had to prepare, and that it would all keep for another day. 

For almost a week after, Erik doesn’t hear another word about it. Now that the thought is in his mind—

Charles isn’t even projecting. He hadn’t placed one of his mental cues, one of those embedded fantasies he’d suggest to later unfurl with unsettling vividness—but for all it matters, he may as well have. 

Every time Erik showered or tried to sleep, whenever he took a piss or was changing after a run, the thought was there. While Charles hadn’t been explicit about the details, he doesn’t really _need_ to be: it’s obvious, at least in part, what’s going to be shaved, and Erik spends no little time staring at himself in the mirror, wondering how it’ll turn out. 

And how _much_ Charles would want to shave. If Charles will want to shave his legs, too. How long this will all wind up taking, where they’ll even do it. If he shouldn’t trim just a bit more first to get started because while he isn’t particularly hairy he doesn’t want Charles jamming up the house’s old plumbing, if he shouldn’t buy a few extra razors in preparation. 

Then, every time, he shakes himself and tries to carry on. It’s a disorienting situation: he’s habitually attenuated to all the metal in the house, but now he’s constantly casting out for one more piece. He’s suddenly obsessed with honing the blade of his existing razor, always wondering when Charles will be ready for him. 

And he can’t stop thinking of what _else_ Charles had said. 

_There is one thing I miss_. 

So, Charles had shaved himself. Perhaps often. 

That, too, is something Erik hadn’t ever thought about before, and now that he _is_ thinking about it, he finds himself staring constantly. When they’re eating dinner, when Charles is driving, when they’re in the bathroom together, getting ready for bed. When they’re on the couch, when Charles is rushing for the kettle, when he wakes up to Charles shifting in the night… It’s always at the periphery of his mind. Whatever Charles had liked about it, he hasn’t gone clean-shaven—at least not in _that_ manner—in all the time they’ve been together. It’s odd to consider, and Erik isn’t sure, curious as it may be, how he should feel about the mental image it all presents. 

A week later, when Charles presses the wordless inquiry at him—just an impression of _now, tonight?_ in his thoughts as Erik’s returning from his evening run—he still hasn’t sorted it all out in his mind. 

But it is just hair. It’ll grow back, and so Erik sends _yes, of course_ back through the connection. Terrifying as it is to admit, he’d let Charles do far, far more. 

_Best done after a shower, love_ , Charles projects back. _Go ahead, and I’ll be waiting for you in the bedroom?_

It’s his usual routine, anyway—a quick shower before he finds out what Charles has planned for him, any given Thursday—and Erik doesn’t linger under the cool spray. 

He dries off hastily, and is hanging up the towel when Charles sends him another message. 

_Bring that along, would you? I’m sure we’ll find a use for it._

Erik has no doubt Charles already has everything—towels included—in the room already. He’s never anything less than meticulous when it comes to preparing when it comes to this sort of thing, and Erik should know. Charles has a rather limitless creativity in the bedroom. All the same, he carries the towel in with him. 

He’s not sure exactly what he was expecting to see when he got there, but a still-fully-dressed Charles probably wasn’t it. 

Charles smiles at him when he walks in, disarmingly innocent. The only visible signs of Charles planning anything at all are the towels already piled on the bed, and the fact his shirtsleeves are rolled up past the elbow, showing off his strong, freckled forearms. 

“There you are,” Charles says, as if he hadn’t just been speaking to Erik mind-to-mind. He pats the towels invitingly with one hand. 

Erik’s powers are focused completely on three things. A pair of scissors and a cylindrical aluminium container—a can of shaving cream, he’s sure—are hidden in the folds of a towel. And, obscured right now by Charles’s body, there’s something full of hot water. 

He’s not sure what it is, but he’s sure of what’s _in_ it—his own razor. It’s an old thing, a double-edge he’s had for ages. Charles has changed the blade. 

For a moment, he’s frozen where he stands. Charles projects a wordless question at him, and before Erik (or, more importantly, _Charles_ ) can second-guess this all, Erik takes the few long strides to the bed. 

He sits carefully, not wanting to disrupt what he can now see is a water-filled mug, and drapes the towel at his side. 

“Here I am,” he agrees. He’s unselfconscious in how he sits, thighs spread. Charles takes advantage of that right off, wheeling so he’s positioned between Erik’s legs. 

He rests his hands on Erik’s thighs, his touch steadying and firm. 

“And how lovely you look. You’re sure, then?” 

Erik glances down at Charles’s hands, at himself—the hair on his abdomen, on his thighs, above his cock—and he shrugs. 

“It isn’t as if it’s permanent,” he says, and Charles gives him a look. “What? I said anything you’d like. I’ve said I’m sure already.” 

“I suppose,” Charles admits, now sounding unsure himself. Erik raises one of his hands slightly, drawing out the scissors and shave cream from where Charles had them hidden. 

“I’m sure,” he repeats. “As long as it’s nothing that’d show in polite company…”

“Of course not! How much do you think I’d—” he trails off, preoccupied with Erik’s thoughts. “Oh. Oh, I didn’t say, did I?” 

Erik snorts. Forgetting he’s the only telepath in the relationship is a distressingly common occurrence with Charles. 

“Well, I can tell you now, it won’t be as much as you’re imagining,” Charles continues, one hand sliding over and up a little. His fingers wind through the thick curls above Erik’s prick. “Just—the obvious, I suppose. And a bit lower, as well, but I’m not doing your _whole_ arse, that’s a mistake one only makes the once.” 

“Luckily for me, with yourself,” Erik says, trying not to sound too relieved. 

“Luckily for you, I fancy a fuzzy bum,” Charles says. “So that all sounds all right?” 

“I said it was fine when I thought you were doing _more_. Go on,” Erik says, floating the scissors toward Charles, handle-first. 

Charles takes the scissors out of the air one-handed, his left hand now pulling slightly on Erik’s hair. 

“If you insist,” he says, and then—quickly, unceremoniously—he cuts. 

Erik lets out his breath. It’s not a lot of hair that Charles has cut off, in the scheme of things, but—as Charles snips again, and again—it is rather unnerving, having someone else direct a pair of scissors in this particular area. Even if he could easily take control, Erik holds himself very, very still as he watches Charles work. 

He doesn’t take long. Erik wonders how much practice Charles had, doing this to himself. He wonders, as Charles sets the scissors aside and picks up the shaving cream, if he was emboldened, knowing how focused Erik is on the distinct hum of metal in those shears. 

He wonders what Charles thinks, that his cock’s already thickening from so very little.

Whatever Charles is thinking, he doesn’t comment on any of it. He squirts out a bit of shaving cream and starts massaging it in slowly. 

Despite himself, Erik makes a quiet noise. He can’t help wanting more, having Charles like this. The silkiness of the shave cream, the heat of Charles’s touch, so firm and direct around his pelvis yet never quite touching his cock—

“Nice, isn’t it?” Charles asks, brushing cream over the join of his thigh. It all feels like foreplay, like the most elaborate, prolonged tease. 

Only the main act concerns a razor. 

Erik spreads his legs a little further, not wanting to think about why that seems so _appealing_. 

“Not bad,” is all he allows. Charles laughs, softly, as he wipes his hands on the towel.

They’re both quiet as Charles reaches for the mug, bringing it closer. When he grabs the handle of the razor, Erik _feels_ it, as intensely as if it were his own body. 

It takes far more control than he’d imagined to not reach out for the blade with his powers. Charles has one hand resting on Erik’s upper thigh, steadying and firm. He’s purposefully slow, bringing the razor close—giving yet another chance to back out of this, Erik’s sure—and Erik _wants_ to be annoyed. He’d said it was fine, it’s fine. The job is part-done already, isn’t it? Charles is just extending this out needlessly, he’s being ridiculous…

But every second is another he’s fighting down his own powers, that he’s suppressing the urge to move or complain, and fuck if it doesn’t all make his pulse beat faster. 

His cock is filling thick and heavy, utterly untouched. When the head of the razor finally— _finally_ —presses against skin, he moans. 

Charles draws it down, shearing the hair in a long pass of the razor. 

“‘Not bad,’ that’s it?” 

Erik laughs, a little breathlessly, and shakes his head. 

“Well, you can’t stop now, anyway,” he says. Charles grins up at him, and dips the razor back in the mug to rinse it off. 

“I _could_ ,” Charles says, leaning back in his chair as if admiring his work, and Erik nudges at him with one knee. 

“It’s _your_ fetish. Not mine.”

Charles just brings the razor close again. “Hmm. I guess we’ll see about that,” he says, and he drags the blade lingeringly over Erik’s skin. 

For as slow and bizarrely sensual as Charles is apparently capable of shaving, it doesn’t take long to do most of it. Erik is caught up in the sensation of the metal, warmed by his body; in how it feels to have the blade rake over his nerves so intimately. 

By this point he has nearly convinced himself it'll continue being this pleasant. Now he’s accustomed enough that it’s not unnerving, and any lingering sense of danger has transmuted into arousal. 

Then Charles has him lie back, and starts in on his balls. 

Erik holds utterly still for all of _that_ , no matter how much Charles reminds him to breathe. And yet if anything—if anything, Erik’s cock just gets _harder_. It’s so intensely vulnerable. It’s terrifying to trust someone in this way, the way he trusts Charles.

“Lovely,” Charles says, after what seems like ages. “You’re so good for me.” 

It’s lucky, Erik thinks, that he’s lying down now and Charles can’t see his face. Flustered, Erik stays silent as Charles rinses the razor again, and complies wordlessly when Charles asks him to draw up his legs. 

“Up a little more, my love,” Charles says, tapping Erik’s thigh. Erik lifts both knees up, fully to his chest, exposing himself, his cock pushing hard and hot against his stomach. Wrapping his hands behind his thighs, he holds on. Bared so completely, he can’t help being embarrassed, no matter how familiar Charles might be. 

“It’s all right.” Charles’s voice is gentle, almost unbearably intimate in the soft light of the bedroom. He pumps more shaving cream into his hand, and rubs it lingeringly around Erik’s asshole. 

Like earlier, it’s surreal to have this much attention focused on him, in this way. Charles is just spreading the cream around his skin, making no move to penetrate him. It feels good, yet unnerving. 

Erik feels like he should be doing something, like Charles can’t possibly be this focused on shaving his ass. 

“Hush,” Charles says, wiping his hands on the towel again before taking up the razor. The sound of it swishing through the water, clinking against the mug’s edge—by now, it’s as if Charles has him _trained_ to react, it’s like a Pavlovian response. “Believe me. I enjoyed this for a reason. Now, hold still, hmm?” 

By now, it should be easy. Erik would’ve thought that the scrotum would have been the most difficult part, that this would be easier. But it’s still—despite all that’s happened before, despite the control he has over the threat of the razor’s edge—a visceral, anxious sensation. Charles scrapes the razor in short, careful strokes, holding the skin taut as he shears the hair. 

_I’m not doing your whole arse_ , Charles had said. True enough, he’s just shaving along the cleft, leaving the delicate skin of Erik’s perineum over-sensitized and bare. He holds his breath, aroused and nervous, as Charles shaves over wrinkled flesh, as he traces back, toward Erik’s tailbone. 

It’s then, when the razor starts scraping over the vulnerable, exposed ridges of his coccyx, that Erik reacts. It’s suddenly impossible, not to tense up his stomach and thighs, to try and flinch away. 

Pulling the razor back again, Charles huffs out a breath, sounding suspiciously as if he’s suppressing a laugh.

“You know, my dear,” he says, clattering the razor again in the mug, “You _could_ always stop me.” 

Erik glares down at him, but Charles looks serenely engrossed with rinsing off the blade. Just as well, Erik realizes—it’s difficult to be intimidating like this, knees pulled to chest, completely vulnerable. 

“I don’t need to stop,” he grinds out, looking away. The words, too, are uncomfortably exposing, so he keeps talking. “You’ve gone this far, it’d look absurd to stop now.”

Charles does laugh a little then, a soft, gently amused sound. His attention is focused back on Erik; he’s staring down at him again. Erik knows without looking, without sensing it in the constant surrounding net of Charles’s powers, the energy between them shifting again into something electric.

The mug is set down again on the bed. Erik waits. The moment seems to stretch out, and then Charles’s touch is warm and callous-rough against his perineum. Erik tenses up again, but for a different reason entirely: every nerve lit up from the stroke of the blade, the sensation so different without the protection of hair. 

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Charles asks, rubbing upward as he tests the shave. Erik is hyperaware of his cock, heavy between his thighs; of how he must look as he leaks precome down on his tense stomach; and he moans. 

“Mmm, we _are_ almost done with this part of it, now, aren’t we?” Charles asks. _With this part?!_ , Erik wants to ask, but by then Charles has picked up the razor again and pressed at Erik to get him to tilt his pelvis up further. “Just a bit more. That’s a love.”

The last few passes are short, staccato drags of the blade, quick and deft enough that Erik can barely flinch as Charles shaves over his tailbone, as he cleans up here and there along the rest of his arse. It seems almost too soon when Charles declares himself done, wipes Erik down with a corner of the towel before giving him a long, appraising look. 

“Why don’t you hop in the shower?” he asks, finally, and he starts tidying up. 

For a moment, Erik can’t trust himself to speak. His cock is pounding, his hole keeps clenching off and on as if begging for Charles’s fingers, he can’t imagine that was all Charles wanted to feel, Charles is barely affected—

“A shower,” he growls, once he’s able to move. He’s not sure which is more annoying: Charles being a tease, or the concept of taking multiple showers within the same night. Hot water isn’t limitless. 

Sitting up abruptly, he tries not to react to how very different _everything_ feels. 

Charles smiles at him innocently, crumpled towel and scissors and mug-with-razor all balanced on his lap. “There’s one more thing I have to get,” Charles says, already heading out of the bedroom, “and trust me, it’s worse than a conventional haircut—you really don’t want to find any spare hairs, later on.”

\---

This time in the bathroom, Erik finds himself taking his time.

For that matter, he winds up taking his time just walking there. Everything feels—different, is all Erik’s mind can come up with, still. Smooth, but disorientingly so; a slickness that hasn’t anything to do with lube. He imagines it won’t be terribly pleasant when it grows back, but for now, it’s a novel experience. 

Part of him is lingering for Charles’s benefit. Out in the hallway, he can sense Charles opening the laundry machine and chucking in the towel, seemingly occupied. But perhaps he’s watching in, perhaps he’s just not being obvious about it. Perhaps he’s embarrassed, even if he was fairly explicit in his desire to experience this through Erik’s body. So he lets himself move slowly and dwell on the sensation of it all, the vulnerability of the soft skin between his thighs, the heaviness of his half-hard prick, and when he’s finally in front of the mirror he takes a long moment there, too. 

Seeing himself in the mirror’s reflection is jarring, even if he _had_ been watching it all happen. The hair on his stomach now trails down to only pale, bare skin, startling in contrast with his thighs and ass and everywhere else left unshaven. 

The effect, Erik realizes, is downright pornographic. 

It’s an uncomfortable realization. He has a fairly neutral image of his body—he’s aware, of course, that Charles finds him attractive, that he’s regarded as conventionally attractive—but he’s always appreciated his body more for functionality than aesthetics. 

Like this, it’s like being _prepared_. Like he’s meant to be shown off. 

And like this, his cock looks _ridiculously_ huge. 

Flustered, Erik turns away from his reflection and starts up the shower. 

This time when he returns to the bedroom, Charles is in bed, propped up on some pillows so that he’s lying at an angle. Erik hasn’t a clue what Charles has planned for him _now_ , but whatever it is, Charles at least has had the decency to get undressed. 

“You might be kind enough do the same,” Charles suggests, raising an eyebrow at the towel Erik has wrapped around his hips. Erik doesn’t react, keeping himself covered til he’s at the foot of the bed, fighting down that odd, over-exposed sensation. They’re ridiculous, he thinks, the both of them—it’s not like Charles didn’t see it before, not like Charles hadn’t apparently done this to himself a number of times. 

When the towel drops, Charles makes a small, needy sound. 

Still feeling more than a little shy about this all, Erik laughs. 

“Didn’t see enough while you were doing it?” he asks, fighting back his nerves. It’s immensely awkward, just standing there, bared for Charles. For the first time in ages, he’s struck with the impulse to cover himself from Charles’s rapt gaze, and Charles must read some of his hesitation. 

“I suppose not,” he says, as he reaches out one hand. “Come up here, there’s a darling.” 

Once he’s in bed and straddling Charles, it’s a lot easier. If nothing else, Charles is _distracting_ , his hands running broad and warm over Erik’s back as they kiss. For several minutes, that’s all they do, making out like they haven’t already memorized every inch of each other a thousand times over; Erik lingering in the heat of Charles’s lips and tongue, in the familiar affection of Charles’s thoughts. The only thing that feels different—for now, at least—is how over-sensitive his skin is where he’s resting his weight on Charles. 

He wonders if this is all Charles wanted, to get him showered and clean after the shave, to awaken all his nerves and have him like this, hyperaware of every inch of his body. One of Charles’s hands drifts, trailing down Erik’s ribs and the dip of his lower back, to rest on Erik’s ass. His fingertips brush, just barely, against vulnerable fresh-shorn skin.

Erik makes a noise, quiet and muffled. 

“Mmm,” Charles agrees, before breaking their kiss. “Lovely, isn’t it?” 

Unsteadily, Erik sighs. Charles is attentively checking if any stubble came in over the last few minutes, and it takes a moment for Erik to collect his thoughts. “I think I can see the attraction.” 

“Thought you might,” Charles says, sounding rather smug. Erik considers complaining—“I told you so” is an attitude strictly reserved for _outside_ the bedroom—but before he can say anything, Charles continues speaking. 

“But, well—” he starts. Suddenly, Charles sounds hesitant. 

He’s also let go of Erik’s ass. Erik sits up a little to look at him.

“Well. This isn’t all of it. Promise not to laugh?” 

Erik raises his eyebrows. 

“Would I?” 

Charles smiles, almost shyly. “No,” he admits. He reaches out, searching for something underneath one of the several pillows beside them. “But this is a bit… different,” he says, pulling the item out. 

For a second, Erik stares. 

“You don’t have to,” Charles says quickly, and Erik shakes himself. 

“No, it’s not—it’s fine, of course,” Erik replies. 

Charles looks doubtful.

If Erik had been expecting anything, it would have been something _less_ tame than what Charles is currently holding in his hands:

A pair of women’s undergarments, soft pink, and not terribly scandalous. Of course it’s fine, Erik thinks. If this is what Charles wants to do, of course it’s okay. 

“That’s very generous, my darling, but—”

“You already shaved me. I’ll be suffering from that for days, I doubt the underwear is going to be much worse.” 

“Faint praise. Admit you looked shocked,” Charles demands, laughing as Erik grabs at the underwear. 

They’re silk, Erik notes. They seem to be brand-new, but then, how often would Charles have been wearing them? 

“Admit it’s surprising,” he says, looking down at Charles pointedly, “imagining you in them.” 

“Not too bad a shock, one hopes.” 

Erik tries not to roll his eyes. “I’m sure I’ll survive. Have you tried it,” he asks, looking away from Charles and back at the smooth fabric in his hands, “since?” 

“Mm,” Charles hums, as if considering whether he had or not. “No, never have. It always seemed—” 

He trails off a moment. Erik feels more than a little absurd to be just sitting here staring at a pair of panties, but he doesn’t dare move, waiting for Charles to gather his thoughts. 

“It always was more sensory. It wasn’t really a visual thing for me. And I thought... I just wanted to remember the way it _was_. I didn’t want to try and have it be miserable.” He shrugs. “Honestly, I always thought I looked a bit silly in them, really.”

 _Figured I’d only look sillier, now_ , he’s thinking, just loud enough for Erik to overhear. 

He wants to reassure Charles, but it’s not as if Charles can’t already read everything he’s thinking right now, regardless— _of course it’s not a ‘bad’ shock_ , and _I want to see it_ , and _you’re ridiculous, just imagining you in them—_ , and there’s so much Erik could say, but ultimately he settles on action. 

Climbing off the bed, he glances up at Charles. 

“So you leave it to me,” he says, bending down to step into the panties, “to look ‘silly’?” 

He gets them situated over his hips, adjusting his half-hard cock so he’s fully covered. He does have to admit, the sensation is certainly unique—but then, he’s never worn clothes while fully shaved before. 

Or worn women’s undergarments. 

He’s not sure how he looks, but if Charles’s expression is anything to go by, it isn’t _bad_. 

“Well?” he asks, standing there a moment longer, letting Charles stare. There’s a small part of him that still wants to be embarrassed about this, that’s tempted to cover up again, like how he felt coming back in the room after showering. But that impulse is easily subdued, in the face of this: daring Charles to say what he really thinks of how Erik looks, like this. 

“Well,” Charles echoes, before clearing his throat. “Well. I suppose fair’s fair, if you _really_ want to see me in knickers…” 

“Soon,” Erik says, getting back on the bed. Charles reaches out for him, and he obligingly straddles Charles’s chest once more. “But for now, how about we try the sensory part.” 

Charles’s palms spread out over his hips, he starts running his hands all over the fabric, trying to catalogue how it feels, to him and to Erik.

Holding still, Erik tries to concentrate on the sensations. The silk muffles Charles’s touch slightly, and after the raw, nervous exhilaration of having Charles wielding a razor at his groin… Well, Erik supposes that anything else is bound to be a little anticlimactic. All the same—it does feel nice, having Charles warm beneath him. The press of his touch and his powers, heady and focused and adoring.

Charles breathes out, shakily. He’s still brushing his fingertips back and forth over the silk drawn tight over Erik’s rear, as if he can’t help himself, his eyes distant as he continues to focus on Erik’s thoughts. 

“You—you don’t like it,” he eventually says.

“I don’t dislike it,” Erik replies, because while anticlimactic, it isn’t _bad_. He watches as Charles licks his lower lip, frowning, clearly trying to puzzle this through. Erik shifts on his knees. He wishes he did like it—no, _adore_ it—as Charles once did. He wishes his thoughts hadn’t given it away so soon, that this wasn’t much more than vaguely pleasant, that it isn’t some orgasmic experience, at least for him. 

Anyone else, perhaps, and Erik would think it unusual, Charles assuming it _would_ be. Fetishes are nothing if not individual. A telepath of all people should know that, but Charles does have such a tendency to assume how minds work. 

He can sense something in Charles’s thoughts—hesitance, disappointment—and Erik thinks, quickly, that must be it. _How minds work_ , Charles’s and his own, and he fights to push down the awkwardness that’s lingering in him. 

“Maybe,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss Charles’s neck again, letting his weight settle more fully on Charles’s body so the silk and the heat of Erik’s cock underneath is rubbing high on his abdomen, “you’re not focusing enough.” 

Charles gasps, his grip tightening on Erik’s hips. Erik can sense Charles floundering a bit for an answer, and he grins. 

Maybe it’ll be easier than he thought, salvaging this. 

“I’m,” Charles manages, “I’m not—?” 

“You’re in my mind, reading my thoughts—” 

“Imagined that was the point.” 

“Is it? This isn’t my fetish,” Erik says. By now, he’s been shaved, he’s wearing silk panties, and he’s more-or-less humping his boyfriend’s torso. He would feel completely ludicrous about it all, if Charles wasn’t clearly desperate to haul him in closer—to get him rutting higher, against Charles’s sensitive chest. “It’s yours. What matters is what _you_ experience, not what I’m thinking of it. Can’t you focus in closer? On just the sensory input, not what I think of it?” 

For all Erik knows, that’s not how Charles’s powers work. It might not be how brains work, period; he might be biased, but Erik is often quietly certain that he got the better deal in the genetic lottery. Electromagnetism may be nearly impossible to explain to most people, but at least it’s logical. He’s half-certain he’s projecting how he experiences his own powers onto how Charles experiences his—that he’s assuming his ability to narrow his focus to the subatomic means Charles should at least be able to exclude everything but tactile input—and sure enough, Charles frowns up at him.

“Not certain that’s how it works,” Charles says, his voice hitching at the end; he’s managed to tug Erik in such a way that his cock drags over Charles’s right nipple. “But—oh god,” he groans, as Erik thrusts down again, purposefully rough, “fuck, but yeah, I’ll try.”

And maybe this, having Erik basically grind on his chest, would have been enough to do it for Charles. But in a second he’s cursing, fingers bruising on Erik’s hips, his eyes wincing shut as if it’s all entirely too much. 

“Oh,” Charles manages, falling back when Erik shoves aside some of the pillows, when he pushes his weight more fully on Charles’s chest as Charles burrows into his mind. 

“Good?” Erik asks, his breath coming out harsh. It isn’t his _thing_ , sure, this glide of silk against the smooth delicate skin of his cock and balls and cleft. But the heat of Charles’s chest, rising and falling with increasing desperation beneath him, the painful clench of Charles’s hands on his hips… 

The exertion of fucking himself like this, so shamelessly, humping his boyfriend’s chest like—he moans, shutting his own eyes. 

_Fantastic_ , Charles broadcasts. Even his mental voice is rough, unsteady with want. _Beautiful, that’s—oh god_. Between his thighs, Charles writhes, pushes up to put pressure hard against Erik’s cock. “God, thank you, Erik,” he whispers. 

Erik’s still got his eyes shut, but he can sense now that Charles is watching him again. That Charles is at once watching Erik and _being_ him, that he’s sensing everything Erik feels, that maybe he’s even making Erik move like this, hips rutting harder and harder like some _animal_ —

“No,” Charles whispers. He lets go of Erik’s hips, then. His hands run up Erik’s ribs, come around to his chest. “That’s all you, my love. How does it feel?” 

Shaking his head, Erik’s rhythm falters, and Charles pinches at him in warning. _Come on, darling,_ he sends, tugging when Erik doesn’t move, when he just moans with desperation. Erik’s thighs are aching with strain, and he’s not sure how he should feel about Charles turning the tables here—isn’t this about him, isn’t this Charles’s fetish?—but he starts grinding again, all the same. 

_There you are_ , Charles projects. He doesn’t ask Erik how it feels again, he _takes_ it instead, his mind relentlessly cataloguing it all. Erik’s hesitation and exhaustion, his embarrassment, his awareness of his body and Charles’s, the awkward nervousness of how he must _look_. 

_You know it’s about you, too, my love. It always is_ , and Erik doesn’t know how Charles can possibly sound so controlled when he’s moaning and swearing continuously, when his fingers scratch so clumsy at Erik’s chest. 

By now, the fabric of the panties is catching uncomfortably against the head of his prick, wet with precome. Flushed and sweating, he ignores it, and sinks himself into the raw sensation of Charles beneath him, around him. Inside him in such a fundamental, terrifying way—

Charles comes before him, but only just: Erik’s snared so tightly in his powers that the rush of Charles’s orgasm sweeps him under. His thighs tense around Charles’s ribs, his cock twitches hard, trapped in the silk of the panties and pushed tight against Charles’s chest. Come soaks the fabric, trails down to pool hot against his bared skin, and he’s never felt anything like it, but Charles is shuddering again beneath him and groaning low, the vibration wrenching another pulse from Erik’s cock, and the memories of Charles jerking off like this time and time again flood Erik’s mind. 

Their orgasm spins out long enough to be almost painful. When it’s over, it’s all Erik can do not to pass out directly on Charles. Somehow, he manages to kneel up and clumsily arrange himself at Charles’s side. 

For a long while, all he can do is lie there, head pillowed on Charles’s shoulder as he catches his breath. 

He doesn’t dare open his eyes yet. Charles is petting his sweat-damp hair, brushing it back, slow and gentle. His powers are still wrapped in Erik’s mind—no longer penetrating, it’s more as if Charles is draped over his thoughts, heavy and warm. Erik sighs, and presses his face against Charles’s neck. 

The come is rapidly cooling. He’s sore, the panties are disgusting against his skin, and he’s completely disgruntled about the prospect of a third shower.

Softly, he kisses Charles, just a brush of lips against the pulse point under his jaw. 

“Everything you remembered?” he asks, thinking _hope it’s worth how much it’ll itch, growing back_.

Charles laughs brightly, and tugs at him to get a proper kiss. Before he gives in, Erik opens his eyes and stares down at Charles, his handsome grin and his ginger stubble and every familiar freckle.

“Come here,” Charles urges, pulling again, and Erik lets him. 

_It was, my love_ , Charles sends as he kisses Erik roughly, _everything I remembered, and more._


End file.
